


Hypanthium

by PomoneCorse



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, PWP, Pegging, Sparring, Woman on Top, more exactly sparring as foreplay, spoilers for retribution, the perils of being 5 feet tall and trying to peg your 6' tall bf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PomoneCorse/pseuds/PomoneCorse
Summary: They make quite a pair, both a sight to behold. A mid-thirties has-been, pudgy despite renewed muscles, opposite a forty year old local celebrity, tattered and worn by time. Both of them very, very dangerous, even if all they’re wearing is gym clothes."Why don't we make a game of it?”





	Hypanthium

**Author's Note:**

> kindly beta'd by [Katrine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katrine) !! 
> 
> anyway this was a pwp that ran away from me and i now will retreat to the Hut'O'Shame

The small rituals they keep are nice, comforting. Even after everything's changed. Even after revelations, rebirths, reunions. Even after Ortega had found her out and learned ( _ some of _ ) the ugly, ugly secrets kept close to her heart. And truth be told, Solana missed sparring with him. Missed the easy banter, at least.

So here they are, in some nondescript room in her lair ( _ her lair! like some wicked monster out of some B movie _ ), in grey sweats and sportswear.

"I bet you can't last ten minutes." Solana finishes stretching, wincing at the bruising on her thighs from a fight with what's left of the Rangers. With Charge turned villain and Argent freed at last, Herald and Steel are the last major roadblocks on her path. No matter how she feels about it, they can't stand alone for long.   
"As if you could take me without that armor. You've gotten soft," he grunts, bending down to touch his toes. "You're not puppeteering some younger woman's body anymore."   
"But maybe you wish I were," she quips, raising up her arms in the ready position. "What's it gonna be, Ilio?"   
Ortega shrugs, draws back to the other side of the mat in a mirror image. They make quite a pair, both a sight to behold. A mid-thirties has-been, pudgy despite renewed muscles, opposite a forty year old local celebrity, tattered and worn by time. Both of them very, very dangerous, even if all they’re wearing is gym clothes.   
"Why don't we make a game of it?” 

“What do you have in mind?” Solana asks, curious despite herself.

The look he gives her is hungry and teasing at once. Like they’re twenty, reckless and stupid, without the specter of the past hanging overhead. 

Oh. Of course. Trust Ortega to find ways to turn any and all situation into an opportunity for flirting. 

“Loser has to let me eat her out until she begs for mercy.”

_ That _ is surprisingly forward for a simple sparring session, makes her blink; but considering, well, the lines they've both crossed to get here...   
"Ah, bold! That may have worked on someone else,  _ Charge _ ,” she says, voice dropping low, posture changing like they’re back on opposite sides of the battlefield, “but not me. I know you. Tell you what, let's raise the stakes. You win, we do that. I win, I fuck you how I like."   
"I wouldn't say no to that, Sol," he looks amused. Probably thinking about being pinned to the wall again, neck craned to meet her halfway. If she has her say, he won’t be thinking for long.

“You misunderstand. I'm going to bend you over a desk, peg you, and fuck you  until you cry.”   
“Ah, that’s- uh.” Ortega clears his throat. His ears turn red. “I wouldn’t say no to that either.”

They’re too old to be acting like teenagers; but all she can think about is finding out exactly how far down the flush goes.

Urgh.

She goes on the offensive.

He's expecting the first three punches aimed at his throat, parries them easily, but not the kick to the midsection, the sweep of her right leg. Then, the Krav Maga move she uses to get in close, to twist and bend his arm behind his back like she'll break it. He’s slow, she thinks. Maybe he does want to lose.   
Solana leans closer, brings chewed-up lips close to his ear, close enough to feel stubble scratch her cheek.   
"Or maybe I should have you fuck yourself in my lap, riding yourself into exhaustion. Wouldn't you like that? Having to beg for it?"   
Ortega makes a choked sound, but Solana doesn't let her guard down. Allows herself a smirk, at most. This isn’t the first time they’ve flirted while fighting, he should be able to take it. 

She sees the other arm fold up, moving to elbow her in the gut as Ortega pivots, and moves out of the way in time. Just like at the Gala ( _ and it feels like that happened just yesterday, standing over the Rangers with the heady rush of victory coursing through her veins _ ) this requires all of her focus. He raises a leg to kick the thigh just above the knee, right where her bruising is at its worst, and Solana outright yells when his foot connects.   
Shit!

It ends with Solana on her back, Ortega approaching fast. At least she has the presence of mind to raise her legs up, crossing her ankles behind his neck, keeping him away from her chest. The triangle choke isn’t her favorite, too close, but- Ortega pushes her legs inward as if he wants to fold her in two.

Instinct.

Pushing his head down with one arm, scooting back with her shoulders so he can’t raise himself up, hooking the other arm under his knee-

The motions precise, brutal. With a grunt, she twists, trapping his head and right arm between her thighs.

Now he’s the one choking, his own limb cutting off airflow.

She can’t resist gloating, falling back into the banter they had while he was still playing for misguided heroes.

“Giving up already?”

Ortega wheezes, trying to reply, but Solana tightens her hold. Her thighs burn, but that’s nothing. Both of them have done much worse, have had much worse done to them.

“No talking, unless you forfeit.”   
He tries to wrench his head out, but she holds fast, keeps her legs stiff. 

“I’m waiting,” and she presses further down on his trachea.

Time slows-

And Ortega taps her belly twice. Solana removes her legs, heedless of how much worse the bruising feels. She knows she’s smiling, so much that her face feels tired.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Ortega mutters, cheek pressed into the hard cherry wood of her desk.

Solana tries to stand on the tip of her toes, angle her hips upward. She likes looking at his back. Pushing him down with one hand between his shoulder blades and the other in his hair, feeling in control.

It was pretty much the whole reason she suggested this, and the fact that it doesn’t look feasible frustrates to no end. Her thighs aren’t doing much better, either, even after spending a couple hours in homemade ice packs shorts once they got back to her place.   
“This might be easier if-”

“No, no, I’ll figure this out,” Solana cuts him off, glaring at the desk like it personally insulted her. “And no, I refuse to stand on a stool, or a crate, or whatever. That’s… undignified.”

Ortega stands back up, turns around to face her. Naked, clad only in scarred, tattooed skin and the harness at her waist, Solana should feel like exposed. She does. Some. But it isn’t as bad as it was before. She can stand to be naked now, for one.

_ That _ had been like ripping off a bandaid, or a scab. 

Painful.

Shaking off memories, Solana straightens up.

“Let’s try that again.”

She hopes her shaky smile is as reassuring as she wants it to be.

“Come on, let’s go to my room,” she offers, tugs him close by the hand. It’s always a rush, feeling the shape of the mods under the skin. Could free her of all this mess in a second, one stray, accidental thought.

“You mean your small mattress in a corner covered with my weight in pillows?” Ortega sounds amused. He has reason to be. His hand is very warm in hers. Grounding, even if her skin tingles.

“I have a bedframe now. And thicker blankets.”

“Didn’t we break that last week?”

“You do know I can buy things for myself, right?”

“Guess that gives me free reign to break it again.”

“Ah! You’ll be doing a great job, Ricky, if you don’t break your own hip,” and oh, he hates that name still. She keeps her eyes on the set of his shoulders as the words hit. Good, keep him worked up. If she enjoys his reaction as she nudges him out and right on through the next door, well, that’s for her to know. 

 

With all the mess of the past few months, Solana hasn’t really had time to decorate. The whole two-room apartment is spartan, despite a few plants here and there?s - like the hardy little devil’s tongue that adorns her room. The mattress sinks a little when Ortega kneels at her side. She has to take a moment to avoid following through on the urge to cover the barcode on her chest, grits her teeth as she follows his gaze to her thigh. The bruising’s yellowed now, showing up under the raised skin of scars and the ochre designs on her flesh.

“Chen really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

Solana grimaces, unable to keep the bitterness out.

“You know I’ve had worse. Shit,  _ you _ did worse.”

“And you never pulled your punches, Sol.” Not reproachful, not with how low and wistful his voice’s gotten. He’s still staring at the ugly contusion, hands flexing against bare thighs.

“Of course not,” she smiles, reaching out with one nail to trace the outlines of the mods in his chest. He’s just as damaged as she is; a tool who broke free from the box.

They both are.

She rolls to her side to fish a bottle of lube from the pile of random books and clutter. It’s full enough, but can’t ever have too much. Just like he can’t be too ready.

Wordlessly she has him spread his legs, lean back on the mountain of pillows, warming up the little bottle in her palms. At least he’s much less anxious than earlier.

She works a finger in, carefully. He’s still as ready as he was back on that desk, but frankly it’s fun to have him start to unravel again in her hands.

“Look at you, so needy. This is where you belong, isn’t it?” she says, squeezing more lube out. “Maybe you should stay here, hang up the mask and retire.”

Before, she would have thought him happy to take the lead, to control the situation, but it turns out that the ex-Marshal, ex-hero, likes being told what to do, likes being on his knees, on his back, bound, pinned down. At the thought, she curls a second finger in, careful.

“Are you going to be good for me, Ilio?”

Ortega moans, hands grasping at the blanket beneath him. Her free hand reaches out to steady him, flat on his abdomen.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, yes, Sol, I will,” he says at last, voice twisting up on the last syllable.

She smiles, and leans back to stroke some more lube onto the black silicone she’s sporting.

“Now come here, I did say you would be doing all the work.”

There’s a bit of awkward shifting around, trying to balance with way too many pillows around them both, but they make do. Ortega obediently straddles her waist, up on his knees,before he lowers himself onto the fake silicone cock, slowly, hand flat to the scars and tattoos on her abdomen, so far from the incomprehension of the early days.   
She looks at his imperfections. Some scars, she put there. Some, she knows about from her time playing at normalcy with her puppet. Some, new. She traces them idly as he adjusts; basking in the sensation of Ortega's weight over her like a cat basking in the sun.   
Solana doesn't get much aside from a steady pressure, but it's a rush for her ego to see how Ortega’s breathing changes, how he shifts as he adjusts, rocking back on his hands and knees over her prone form.   
"That's it," Solana encourages, raising a hand still covered in lube to his stubbled cheek. "You're doing great, Ilio."   
"Enjoying the view?" His smile is a little strained.   
"Always."   
She slides her hand from his cheek to his neck, tugging  him down for a kiss he accepts eagerly. Her other hand moves to his chest, teasing, up the trail of black hair and modded flesh that's been marked far too much for one lifetime.   
He straightens up, putting his weight on his knees. Solana runs a hand over his thigh, feeling muscles move with him. There's power, here. Power. Control.  Need. None of the fear and barriers from before.   
Ortega rolls his hips tentatively, like he's afraid to break them. Like an old man, she thinks, snorting at the thought.   
"What's so funny?"   
"Nothing," she says, quickly. Better not discourage him, not when he's doing so well, working himself up like he's putting on a show.   
Wrong answer, it seems, because Ortega stops moving and leans closer, dropping chest to chest, forehead to forehead. He has to bend to do so, what with how much taller he is.   
"Sol. Solana. Tell me."   
Looking into his eyes is difficult - she never was good at doing that with real people, even with her rigorous training from the Farm - but she loves them. The speckles of gold in the brown, the warmth and single-minded focus. How he followed her into Hell and back, looking past the tattoos and scars and seeing her. Just her. Just little project CB-413 who spent too much time poking at the green moss growing under the concrete stairs back at the Farm, who stole a dead girl’s name and patched up a half-life from ruins. She's still fucked up, and so is he, and yet they can have something, now. Past masks. Past ( _ some _ ) secrets.   
"You're getting old, is all. Can't even fuck yourself, can you?"   
"Sure I can," he answers. "And I’m not old, i’m like- fine wine."   
"And you don't want a little help?" She asks, slides both hands up to his hips. "I'd be more than happy to oblige."   
The needy sigh as her lubed hand grasps his shaft is all the encouragement she needs.

They take their time, hand light as can be. After all, he’s supposed to be fucking himself on the strap-on, not have her do all the work. She swipes her thumb on the head of his cock, smears what’s left of the lube over it, the other limb resting on his thigh. Paying no attention to the scars, to the bruises, the cobwebs. Trying to stay in the now. The moment.

Ortega bucks into her palm, and Solana slows to match the rhythm of his hips.

“Watch out, old man,” she jokes, desperate for levity. “Thought you’d last longer than five minutes.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not playing fair-”

“I’m just helping, aren’t I?”

He reaches out to take her hand stroking his thigh. His fingers are just as worn as he is.

“Do you want a show, or do you want me to suffer?” He drapes an arm over his face, throws himself back dramatically. “The things I do for you, I swear.”

“Because you aren’t enjoying yourself? Should we stop?”

“Well, see, I never said-”

Solana snickers, and tugs him down for another kiss. He accepts it, answers with his own hunger, and she can’t help but return it. His growing beard brushes against her chin, prickly, before she pushes him back up. It’s a dizzying sight. 

This time, one of his hands joins hers on his cock. They do good work together, she knows, both in and out of their armors. No reason for sex to be any different.

They settle into a quick rhythm, hands and hips in tandem, until he makes a strangled whine.

She's heard him make similar sounds in the past couple of months, but it never stops feeling like a punch in the gut. The tingling rush of static against her skin, the smell of ozone and sweat and tangled bodies, almost too much.

Her hand keeps its even pace, the dull pressure of his weight against her groin intolerable, and- 

“Oh- Sol-”

She’s lightheaded. Her gaze drifts up from his stomach, watching how he struggles to breathe, tenses, the roll of his hips as he tries to fuck himself faster. His face is thrown upward, mouth agape and eyes half-open.

If she could, she’d freeze time, keep the vulnerability of it all for her own.

Ortega sinks down from his knees to her chest, crumbling after spilling himself. Like a puppet with cut strings. They'll both be in need of a wash in the morning, but lying there skin to skin is much more appealing than moving.

Much like listening to his breathing. It’s so human.

He brings up her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her open palm, and up the burns and scars on her arm until he’s buried his face in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, tracing small circles wherever he can touch.

“So,” she breaks the silence, unwilling to stop and consider how gentle this all is.

Ortega shifts to his side, bending his head back to her neck, breathing over her collarbone and the more tender, raised spots on her skin. His hand wanders down to trace the pattern of healing scars.

“Had fun?”

“With you? Always.”

Solana lays one hand over his on her hip, allows herself to revel in the physicality of it, just for a heartbeat, before tugging Ortega close as she lies back on the pillows, his too-large hands unbuckling the harness from her hips. He tosses it aside, carelessly. She can’t find it in herself to care, too busy watching the man kneeling on the mattress before her.

 

Ortega has always been silver-tongued, and though he’s shown her already precisely how talented he is, she’s not opposed to a repeat performance.

She loses herself in the now, lets him move her around as he bends close. His mouth is warm, a mooring in the tumult of thought as his head creeps ever higher. Like he’s on a quest for ambrosia.

“So I did win in the end, didn't I?” Ortega hums against her thigh after a moment that seems to stretch on forever.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you not to talk with your mouth- ah- full?”

“You're not complaining,” he pulls back, the dark hairs of his beard shining slick, “But I can always stop.”

“Ilio, I swear, if you do-”

He laughs, and lightly nips at her inner thigh with his teeth.

Her muscles burn, her skin irritated by growing stubble, but it's a sweet ache. She's alive, and breathing, and even though she keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way Ortega's fingers tread over bruised skin and his mouth between her thighs get Solana out of her head. It's still his calloused palm, his fingers and his tongue. 

It's still her body.

It doesn’t take long before her knees tremble, tugging on Ortega’s hair like it’ll help. Maybe it does, anchor in the wave of Thinking and Feeling; maybe it doesn't.

She comes down from her peak, all thought fleeing but the feeling of his tongue working against her. It's so very simple, letting go with a gentle touch.

For a while, Solana runs her fingers through Ortega’s dark hair, plays with the shell of his ear, loose-limbed and sleepy.

“I liked watching you.”

“I like watching me too. We should do that more often.”

She laughs, at that, a real full-belly laugh, chest shaking.

The grey clouds part.

 

If only for a little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> also on [tumblr](http://mademoisellegush.tumblr.com/post/183031554480/hypanthium), if you wanna reblog/like it there!


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